


cast me gently into morning

by TobuIshi



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous Reader Gender, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Supergiant Secret Santa 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobuIshi/pseuds/TobuIshi
Summary: You can feel vibrations at the edge of your awareness, a faint distracting ever-present hum; but the Crystal doesn’t call for you. You cannot help whistling tunelessly under your breath as you steer the blackwagon, an old nervous habit, but you keep your eyes on the horizon and leave her be.She’ll call when she needs you. If she needs you. If you can even be of assistance with...whatever is happening.Still, you cannot shake your sense that something is badly wrong.(The Reader is about to face a difficult decision.)





	cast me gently into morning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for respirdal.tumblr.com for the Supergiant Games Secret Santa 2017.

The Beyonder Crystal is calling you.

You kneel amid the lush underbrush of Cinderroot, with your sleeves rolled back and your hands buried deep in the earth, gently easing a firecap out of the damp black soil. As you brush the dirt and fragments of moss from its puckered skin, you feel a tug at the edge of your consciousness: a faint, familiar pulse.

You smile, and set the mushroom in the battered basket at your side. Quickly wiping your mud-smeared hands on the hem of your robes, you reach for the pouch slung over your shoulder.

In the early months after the Rites ended, you had kept the Crystal carefully tucked away as much as possible. Your nerves jangled with apprehension every time you slipped it out of its wrappings, cradling it furtively in your lap as you sat in the blackwagon with the doors closed, like a child stealing sweets from a jar.

It has been over a year, now, and your apprehension has faded. If the stars know what you have done – if they know what and whom you have stolen - they have chosen not to express disapproval. You carry the Crystal at your side, freely, for safekeeping and companionship alike. Your remaining caution is only to guard against ordinary thievery, not celestial retribution.

You glance around briefly, scanning the shadows of the Wakingwood for any sign of approaching trouble. Then, you settle the heavy pouch comfortably in the nest of your crossed legs and pull back the flap to reveal the Crystal. Its glassy surface is soothing against your palms, cool and solid and reassuring.

Closing your eyes, you let go of the world around you and sink down into the Crystal’s depths, falling through darkness like murky water.

Within moments, Sandra’s face swims into focus before you. There is no sign of her usual sardonic smile. Her lips are pressed tightly together.

 _“Ah...lovely Reader.”_ Her greeting is pleasant enough, but she seems...distracted. Unfocused. _“I hoped you would have a moment. Tell me, can you sense Feryn’s presence?”_

She uses her Beyonders’ names so rarely that it startles you, and you have to think for a moment to remember which of them she means. The nimble little Cur, you’re fairly certain. Bewildered, but willing to try, you stretch out into the far reaches of the Crystal, feeling through the infinite shadows for any sign of that small bright wraith.

After a moment, you find...something. A whisper of quick paws and snapping muzzle, hardly more than a half-forgotten memory given shape. As you reach for it, it slips away like mist, and vanishes into the gloom.

Sandra is suddenly beside you again, a frown creasing a sharp line between her brows. _“I cannot summon her,”_ she admits. _“I have tried, but all I can grasp is a sort of remnant, and then, nothing. I thought perhaps she might come forth for you, if you asked, but...”_

You have had no luck, either. When you confess as much, her frown deepens for a moment. Then she forces a laugh, bright and brittle.

 _“Well,”_ she says, wryly, _“I suppose even eight centuries is not long enough to bring that sly fleabag to heel. Who knows what put her in this sulk? She will come when she feels like it, and no sooner. Now, tell me, lovely Reader, how goes your foraging today?”_

You know an abrupt change of topic when you hear one, but she seems eager to think of something else. Obligingly, you offer up a litany of cheerful complaints about grubbing under rotting logs in the mud and the drizzling rain to find medicinal fungi for Oralech’s remedies.

To tell the truth, the task is not so very onerous, but Sandra seems happy to provide sympathetic grumbling. The conversation meanders into reminiscences about the strange and dangerous plants she once encountered in the Downside. Her tales of long-ago times are fascinating, as always.

By the time you tuck the Crystal away and return to your search, you have almost forgotten why she called to you in the first place. But not quite.

\---

You fill your basket over the course of the afternoon, with odds and ends of this and that. Carefully, you portion out the particular items requested, and parcel them up in oiled cloth, with a handwritten note tucked inside. Oralech will pass on your tidings to the rest of the liberated Nightwings; he always does.

After a moment’s thought, you pen a quick postscript to Volfred, alluding to a peculiar happening within a certain stone and requesting his thoughts upon the subject. He is among the very few who know of your private bargain with Sandra the Unseeing, and his advice has been of great help to you in the past.

There are nearly always a few messenger imps roosting in the rafters of the blackwagon, these days, eager to volunteer their services. You make certain to reward today’s helper, feed her morsels of dried fish and fruit, gently scratch her head and call her a clever lass as you strap the small packet securely in place.

Carrying her out onto the back porch, you lift your arm and boost her into the air. You watch until she shrinks to a faint brown fleck in the distance, before finally shuffling back inside.

As you seat yourself at the controls of the blackwagon, you remember that fleeting wisp of green, melting into the shadows.

You frown, and rest one hand briefly on the Crystal, opening your mind to the bright sharp glow of Sandra’s thoughts. She is distracted, attending to something; but as your mind brushes hers, she draws quickly away, as if slamming a door shut.

With a sigh, you take the wheel and prepare for liftoff. You cannot force her to communicate with you; she will reach out again when she sees fit. In the meantime, you’ve a number of herbs left that the good doctor didn’t need, and the market at Hollowroot should be open at this time of year.

Unlike your immortal companion, you have needs that must be fulfilled to keep body and soul together. It’s time to see to your own keeping.

\---

For as long as the remaining daylight lasts, you fly south. The sunset stains the rippling waves with brilliant reds and golds. You can feel vibrations at the edge of your awareness, a faint distracting ever-present hum; but the Crystal doesn’t call for you. You cannot help whistling tunelessly under your breath as you steer, an old nervous habit, but you keep your eyes on the horizon and leave her be.

She’ll call when she needs you. If she needs you. If you can even be of assistance with...whatever is happening.

Still, you cannot shake your sense that something is badly wrong.

Before night can fall completely, you bring the blackwagon down, landing gently amid the crags of Ragged Rock. Even in this comparatively sheltered spot, the wind from the sea rattles the wagon’s rafters and blasts cold salt spray against the walls; you are grateful to remain snug and safe inside.

You nestle into the comfortable warmth of your bunk, and try to sleep.

\---

The Beyonder Crystal is plucking at your thoughts again, pulling you back to wakefulness. What time is it? Not yet dawn, you suspect. The sense of unease radiating from it is palpable, now; you can feel it even without fully opening your mind to Sandra.

Wrapping a frayed blanket around your shoulders, you sit up in bed and peer into the shadows without lighting a candle. The Crystal is half-buried in the blankets at the foot of your bunk, glowing with faint foxfire. Even if it did not, Sandra’s distress would draw you to it as clearly as a chiming bell.

You gather it into your arms, allowing your outer senses to switch off.

_“Reader...?”_

Sandra’s face blooms to fill your inner vision; she is twisting her fingers together, jumpy with restless energy. Drowsily, you ask her what the matter is.

 _“I am sorry to disturb your rest,”_ she says. You assure her that it’s no trouble at all; if something is upsetting her, you wish to know about it. She grimaces, and says nothing more at first, but neither does she insist that you leave. You wait, patiently.

 _“I...I cannot reach them,”_ she finally blurts. _“My Beyonders...it has been long centuries since we last kept any real company together, here in our prison, but they have always answered when I called. Now, it is as if they are slipping away from me. Feryn, To’mi, Lishan, Palmis, Thiata...I can no longer feel their presence at all.”_

A cold shiver runs down your spine. You try to ignore it. Gently, you remind Sandra - and yourself - that you expected the bindings on the Crystal to fade somewhat after the Rites had ended. She herself predicted this.

She nods, but looks no happier. _“It is not only that,”_ she admits. _“Zaphestoph remains, for now, and Vorfrit as well. They were always the strongest of us.”_ From their names, you guess that she means the demon and the crone. _“I can touch their minds, if I make an effort, but...they seem...unable to respond.”_

There’s a strange quiver in her voice; it wrings your guts to hear it. She has not sounded this way since she begged you not to abandon her to her lonely fate, more than a year ago.

 _“Their minds are fragmented,”_ she says, softly. _“Fading. Confused. They hardly know themselves any longer. I think they will go to their own rest in turn, sooner rather than later, but...”_

She falls silent, leaving the question hovering between you in the darkness of the Crystal. There is unlikely to be any such merciful release in store for Sandra. What will happen to her own mind, trapped here for so long, as the enchantments on the Crystal begin to waver and crack?

At a loss for words, you can only offer the quiet warmth of your mind. It is not a proper embrace, but Sandra accepts it, and seems at least somewhat eased by it.

 _“Foolish of me,”_ she murmurs. _“To think I imagined...”_

She does not finish the thought, trailing off instead into a bleak and weary silence. A sudden surge of resolve fills you. You cannot leave her to face this without help, and you tell her as much.

She laughs. _“Ah, my lovely Reader,”_ she sighs. _“You have remained with me when no one else would, living or otherwise. What more could I ask for?”_

Fiercely, you insist that there must be something you can do. Indeed, you have some ideas already, although they will have to wait for the dawn. It is unsafe to fly by night. Sandra seems unconvinced, but does not argue with you.

When at last the Crystal forces you back out into the living world, you hold it in your lap and stare up into the dark rafters for a long time, willing her to feel your determination and draw strength from it. It will be all right. You will make it right.

Somehow.

\---

With the first light of dawn comes the soft sound of an imp's claws scratching at the blackwagon door. Your little messenger is back, and she bears a reply from Volfred Sandalwood.

The newly-elected prime minister of the Sahrian Union is a busy Sap with many demands on his time, but he still makes a point to answer your missives swiftly. You have always paid him the same courtesy, on the occasions when he asked for your perspective. Now, relief washes through you at the sight of the slip of paper.

Unfolding it, you skim the inked lines. He condoles with you on your fears; he agrees that it would be wise to take action. _I suspect,_ says the note, _that Bertrude’s counsel upon this matter could prove invaluable, my kin. I wish you luck._

Your thoughts have been running in the same direction all night. If anyone living might be able to advise you about the workings of the Crystal, it would have to be Big Bertrude. The western reaches of Flagging Hands are not far to the south of Ragged Rock. You could reach her before nightfall.

When you propose the idea to Sandra, she scoffs. _“That upstart child?”_ If she could open her eyes, she would be rolling them. _“Has she not meddled enough with this prison of mine?”_

(Sometimes, when she speaks of the venerable bog crone in this way, you wonder how you must seem to her. Your basket of years is nearly empty compared with either of them, and yet Sandra addresses you as an equal. It puzzles you and pleases you all at once.)

You point out that any insight she may have would be better than nothing. Sandra grumbles, but does not protest further. _“I suppose you have a point,”_ she concedes, and falls silent again.

You try not to let this uncharacteristic docility frighten you. It proves difficult.

\---

The old familiar fog of misery rises up to meet you as the blackwagon touches down in Plaguemont. Fortunately, you still have some of Bertrude’s cantrips and charms, which do a great deal to fend off the effects of lingering in this place.

Still, the sheer reek strikes you like a blow as the wagon trundles past the smoldering remains of the Pit of Milithe. Tying a rag across your face does little to block out the smoke and stench.

When you complain of the smell to Sandra, it sparks a bit of genuine cheerfulness in her. As ever, she cannot resist the chance to tease you, subject as you are to the sensory miseries of the world. You play along, agreeably bemoaning your lot and describing the foulness of the air in anguished detail. You have noticed her fondness for this sort of gallows humor in the past, the way she crows over her losses as though they were gains.

For your part, you are content to be able to make her laugh. To distract her from her fears for a time, however short.

 _“I am grateful, you know,”_ she murmurs, suddenly solemn again, as you bring the blackwagon to a stop at last outside Big Bertrude’s premises. _“You need not do any of this for my sake, and yet you persevere. I admit, I find it quite mystifying at times.”_

You smile, and carefully pack the Crystal back into its carrying pouch, heaving the strap over your shoulder. There is nothing else you would rather do.

When you tell her this, she falls silent; but it is a warm silence. Cradling the Crystal in the crook of your arm, you begin navigating your footing between the steaming sinkholes, toward the famous trading post.

\---

The front door of Bertrude’s establishment is hung with a curtain of mottled hide, quite unidentifiable to you. The knocker mounted on the doorframe is the vertebra of some vast creature. You give it a few smart raps, and settle in to wait.

There ensues a good deal of grumbling and shuffling about, audible from outside; and then an elegant claw draws aside the curtain, and Bertrude peers suspiciously out at you. The guarded look on her face transmutes into honest pleasure when she recognizes you.

“Ahh, Reading-One,” she says, cracking into a rare smile. “What business bringeth thee to our dwelling-place?”

There is little sense in mincing words. You show her the Crystal, and her smile evaporates.

“Thou knowest well we have forsworn further tampering with that wretched stone,” she reminds you, curling her lip in disapproval. “It beareth dread sorceries, ancient and profound. Their depths are not meant to be sounded by mere mortals.”

Desperation creeps into your voice as you tell her the details of your errand and its purpose. You describe the peculiar behavior of the Beyonders. You relate Sandra’s grim theories. You plead with her for her help. If she cannot assist you, you suspect no-one can.

As you finish, Bertrude lets out a long hissing sigh between her teeth, and settles back slightly, shaking her head. “We suspect that little good shall come of this,” she warns. “But...for thy sake, Reading-One, we shall examine the cursed thing.”

You begin to express your gratitude, and she gestures sharply to interrupt you.

“Nrrrggghhhh,” she grumbles. “Give it here, then, before we change our mind.” She beckons you to a small table in the corner of her shop, scattered with decks of cards and threadbare velvet pouches of runestones.

As you slide the Crystal out of its bag, you can feel Sandra’s annoyance and apprehension vibrating against the palms of your hands. Carefully, you place it on the table and step back.

Bertrude slithers closer with the wary, focused caution of a trained handler approaching a dangerous animal. Flexing her gnarled fingers, she spreads them wide and passes them carefully through the air around the Crystal. Her eyes abruptly widen, serpentines twitching in surprise. You see nothing, hear nothing, but the venerable crone tilts her head as if listening, first one way and then another.

After a moment, she touches the orb, gingerly at first – as if expecting it to burn her – and then more confidently, picking it up and turning it in her hands to peer more closely at the shifting patterns of green light beneath its surface. All the while, she mutters to herself, frowning briefly at something, tsking under her breath at something else.

Finally, she sets the Crystal gently back on the table, and heaves a sigh.

“Thou art not wrong, nrrrggghhhh,” she admits. “The enchantments upon this sphere have shifted and weakened greatly since we last observed them. The degradation is clear, to those with the knowledge of how to perceive it.”

You ask her if she knows why all this is happening now, and so quickly. There have been longer gaps between the cycles of the Rites before, have there not? She grimly shakes her head.

“The Rites have ended,” she points out. “The stars themselves are extinguished. ‘Tis possible that these ancient sorceries shall now fade and perish with them.” She trails off, for a moment, thinking. “We know not what shall become of that impious phantom,” she says, at last. “The Crystal holdeth her relentlessly, even as it releaseth her fellow spirits. We can neither repair such ancient magics nor unravel them further. Mayhap her mind shall indeed decay in captivity, as she feareth...or worse.”

You cannot imagine a worse fate; but you refuse to believe that things are that hopeless. If the enchantments on the Crystal are really breaking down, there must be some way you can help her.

Bertrude considers the Crystal again, running the tip of her pointed tongue along her lips. “One solution presents itself,” she ventures. “The spellery upon the Crystal hath long protected its physical form from all injury. Weakened as it now is, it may be possible for thee to sunder it, if a great enough force should be applied.”

You stare at her, incredulous. Is she truly suggesting that you try to smash the Beyonder Crystal? Is that even possible? What would happen to Sandra if you did?

She sighs, pressing her fingertips to her temples. “We cannot say,” she admits. “Our knowledge of such things suggests that the enchantment would be destroyed, together with its anchor. Thou wouldst cleanly break its grip on the spirits within, and spare them a slow dissolution into nothing. Beyond that, there can be no knowing, even for us.”

You shake your head, mutely. There is genuine regret in her eyes as she gazes at you. “It is the best that we can offer, Reading-One. We are sorry.”

\---

As you trudge back up the blackwagon steps, you feel the Beyonder Crystal calling out to you. Slumping onto a seat, you press your palms against it and let the void suck you in.

 _“They are gone.”_ Sandra’s voice is flat. _“The last of my Beyonders is gone. I felt her go, Reader. I felt Zaphestoph’s mind scattering like ashes in the wind as she vanished.”_

Reaching out to her, you do your best to soothe her distress, stunned though you are by the news. She seems too weary to push you away.

 _“I confess,”_ she says, shakily, _“though I had long since grown weary of their company, and they of mine...even so, they have been my companions through the long centuries. They were my sisters, once, and...they have left me.”_

You are unsure of what to say. Your first instinct is to leave her alone to grieve, but solitude seems a cruel thing to inflict upon her now.

 _“Ah, kind-hearted Reader,”_ she murmurs. _“You have the right of it. I would rather not be alone just yet. Come, tell me what the snake-witch discovered.”_

You tell her of Bertrude’s tidings, of her confirmation of the deteriorating spellwork and her correlation of Sandra’s suspicions. Reluctantly, you explain that it may be possible to destroy the Crystal, thereby breaking the enchantment, but that even Bertrude cannot say what will become of Sandra if you do.

The thought of losing her is almost unbearable...but if she desires this, you cannot deny her. You are aware that she has longed for release for a very long time.

Sandra chuckles, darkly _. “Ah, yes...there was a time when I wished for nothing more than death, and an end to my imprisonment. Any end.”_ She shakes her head. _“Now, after eight centuries, such an end is within my reach, and yet...I find myself clinging to this pitiful existence. The irony is sharp, I must say.”_

After a moment, she adds, very softly, _“Thank you, lovely Reader. I shall need to think upon this. When my decision is made, you shall be the first to know, of course.”_

The Beyonder Crystal no longer requires your presence. What else can you do? You float back to the surface, and find that your cheeks are streaked with tears.

\---

To spend this night of all nights in Flagging Hands is more than you can bear. You take the wheel and guide the blackwagon south in the waning daylight, as far as the gray stones of Shunt. As you soar over Nihiland, gazing down at the blighted overgrowth, it occurs to you that this is where Tariq first passed the Beyonder Crystal into your keeping.

You lightly touch the Crystal in its pouch at your side, and whisper to Sandra of the memory; but you cannot tell if she hears you.

That night, you curl up in your bunk with the Beyonder Crystal in your arms, cradling its smooth, shining curve against your stomach. You hold it tightly, as if you could keep the world together through the sheer enveloping pressure of your embrace.

Sandra’s thoughts are a constant pale unreadable flicker at the edge of your own, brushing against your mind again and again like a nervous tic: the repetitive stroking of a frightened thumb across the fingers of a tightly held hand.

It is as though she is not yet ready to speak, yet she cannot stop checking to make sure you’re still listening.

She breaks her silence only once, just as you are beginning to drift off to sleep. _“Do you know,”_ she confesses, softly, _“I once imagined I might be a companion for you in your old age, when you had grown too deaf to converse with anyone more engaging than myself.”_ Her tone sobers. “ _I dreaded those days, lovely Reader. I shuddered to imagine the slow failing of your body, as you slipped beyond my grasp...but, no. Perhaps this is the Scribes’ last and greatest jest at my expense, for it seems you are to be my comfort in my own last days, instead.”_

She laughs, soft and bitter. You struggle to stay awake, after that; to remain with her as long as you can.

Eventually, despite your best efforts, sheer exhaustion wins out, and you fall into an uneasy doze at last.

\---

Her frightened cry wakes you, reverberating through your mind. You bolt upright, fumbling for the Crystal. You can feel Sandra shuddering, clutching at you, pulling you down into its depths. You plunge after her, only half-awake but frantic, heart pounding.

It is dark inside the Crystal, as always, and echoingly lonely without the familiar presence of the Beyonders. But the darkness is not empty. It throbs with greenish veins of light, pulsing and flickering like summer lightning.

In the midst of it all, you find Sandra doubled over, clutching at her head with both hands. _“Something is happening,”_ she says, and her voice strains and cracks. _“I...I can feel it.”_

She lets out a helpless groan, and you feel it as well. Whatever magic holds the Crystal together is snapping apart, strand by strand, with sharp glassy pings and sparks of greenish light.

You reach out to Sandra with your thoughts, and flinch. Her presence is blurring at the edges, snapping briefly into focus and then out again. _“R-Reader...?”_ she gasps, voice distorting, spectral hands groping uselessly for you in the dark.

The enchantments on the Crystal are collapsing. You can feel them tearing loose, like mooring ropes ripping from their cleats; crumpling in on themselves with Sandra caught in the middle. With a horrible instinctive certainty, it dawns on you that if anything is left of her when it all settles, she will have lost all ties to the outside world.

You will have no way of knowing if she lives or dies. You will never be able to speak to her again.

 _“Reader.”_ With a great force of effort, Sandra has steadied herself. Her chin is lifted; her shoulders are squared; she stands proudly amid the chaos, trembling and determined. _“I release you from our agreement. Smash the Crystal, if you can.”_

You cry out in protest, but she shakes her head, jaw clenched.

_“Please, if you have any affection for me, you must do this. I do not wish to remain trapped here, forever, as a...a mindless wisp of what I once was. I did not think I could still feel fear for my own sake, but...I think...I think that prospect frightens me more than any other.”_

As you stare at her, dumbfounded, another burst of light showers you both with sickly embers. Sandra’s grim resolve wavers, and she lets out a noise that is half laugh, half sob.

 _“Oh, my Reader,”_ she whispers. _“I am so afraid...”_

You have never wanted so much to hold her, to pull her close. There are so many things you still need to say to her, things that you believed you had at least your own lifetime to discover together.

At the very least, you have time enough to tell her the most important thing; and you do. It only takes a moment.

Sandra goes very still. A wry smile quirks at the corner of her mouth. _“I...I cannot imagine why,”_ she says, softly. “ _But, I am...glad. I--”_

There is a vast crashing like thunder all around you; her startled expression smears, and blurs away into nothing. The Crystal is rejecting you, vomiting you up like a sick animal vomits a foreign object. You clutch at Sandra, but it’s like swimming against a violent current, like being exiled again in reverse, pitched out onto an unforgiving shore.

Gasping for breath, you open your eyes and find yourself back in your bunk, drenched in sweat, with the Crystal clutched in both hands. Its surface glitters with bursts of sickly light, reflected back at you by every bit of glass and metal in the wagon. They are growing fewer and farther between, even as you watch.

Lurching out of bed, you stagger into the middle of the room, and look wildly around for some sort of tool. A shovel, a heavy iron pot, anything. You cannot stop to think; you fear that you’ll lose your nerve.

Gleaming metal catches your eye, flashing with green sparks. The Nightwing sigil, embedded in the wagon floor. Yes. It will serve, you think.

With tears in your eyes, you lift the heavy orb high above your head, and pause to whisper a prayer, though you are unsure to whom. Will the Scribes even listen? Surely they owe her this much, after so many years of torment.

Bring her peace – please – grant her rest, you pray; and then with a convulsive effort, you dash the Crystal as hard as you can against the rock-hard seal at your feet.

The crash is almost musical, a bright shattering chime. Chunks of crystal scatter across the floor like broken ice, bouncing into the corners. The last whisper of Sandra’s presence in your mind flickers, like a pyre reduced to its last guttering lick of flame, and then – it snuffs out entirely.

An awful sound swells in your throat, a sob or perhaps a scream; but before you can give it voice, brilliant green flames explode upward from the floor, so bright that they hurt to look at. You stagger back, terrified, arms raised to shield your face.

The flames whirl into a column, rise toward the ceiling...and vanish, plunging the wagon into absolute darkness.

You blink rapidly, sparkling afterimages still fading from before your eyes...

And then you hear the labored gasp of an indrawn breath, like a diver breaking the surface, and your heart leaps into your throat as your vision finally clears.

Sandra the Unseeing stands before you, solid and alive and real.

Unsteadily, she puts out both hands, groping in the dark. She doesn’t seem to know where she is, or what’s happening to her. Her breathing is unsteady, hoarse and wheezing, as if her lungs have forgotten how to manage real air.

“R...Reader...?” she croaks, and stumbles a step toward you; and then she falters, and falls forward into your outstretched arms, unconscious for the first time in more than eight hundred years.

\---

When the initial shock wears off, you find that the first difficulty is in dragging her to a bunk.

All her former ethereality has been lost forever, it seems; Sandra is not tall, but she is stocky and sturdy, and her unconscious weight is an unwieldy load to handle. Maneuvering around the sharp fragments of broken crystal in the dark is a challenge in itself. You begin to regret not flinging the cursed thing into one of Hedwyn’s old pots after all.

You do eventually succeed in hauling her into your own bunk, which is nearest, without injuring either her or yourself in the process. You light a few candles to see properly by, and find a broom to sweep the remains of the Crystal safely into a corner, for now.

With that taken care of, you return to Sandra’s side, and ease yourself down to sit on the edge of the bunk.

For a few moments, you simply stare at the sheer physical reality of her. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Her dark hair spilling across your patchworked pillow. Her hands, with long callused clever fingers, resting loosely at her sides. She is as alive as you are, and she is _here,_ with you.. _._

She is shivering, you realize, and a thin sheen of cold sweat has broken out on her skin. Abashed, you stop gawking and set to work.

Very carefully, you lift her feet into your lap, unwrap the dusty bindings from her ankles and slip off her sandals, setting them on the floor. You draw up the faded blankets over her and tuck her in as snugly as you can. Her dark lashes are still gummed with some unknown substance; you ladle cool water into a bowl and dampen a rag, dabbing away as much of the stuff as you can while being careful not to let it touch your own skin.

(It occurs to you to cover the bowl and set it aside, rather than pitching it out. Bertrude may have some insight into its properties, whatever it is. A wild hope has ignited in your chest; if Sandra is no longer banished, perhaps she likewise need not always remain Unseeing. Who knows what may be possible? It is a new world.)

With great care, you coax a few sips of fresh water past her lips. With that done, you can think of nothing more to do but sit beside her, and wait.

The dawn light creeps through the portholes of the wagon, washing out the candles’ flames and casting shadows across the floor, faint at first, sharpening with time. You hear the morning calls of the creatures of the dunes as they stir and begin to wander in search of food.

Your head is beginning to nod inexorably onto your chest, when you hear a soft rustle. Warm fingers close around your wrist. You rouse immediately.

“Reader...?”

When you open your eyes, the first thing you see is her bewildered expression. “This cannot be a dream,” she whispers, hoarsely. “I have not slept in...in centuries...”

Catching her hand in both of yours, you reassure her that it is all quite real, and ask anxiously how she is feeling. She hesitates – seems to take stock – and then an honest smile blooms across her face, as she whispers, hardly believing it, “Warm. I feel...warm.”

It is a new world, indeed.

\---

 

 _If it takes my whole life, I won't break, I won't bend._  
_It'll all be worth it, worth it in the end._  
_'Cause I can only tell you what I know;_  
_That I need you in my life._  
_When the stars have all gone out,_  
_You'll still be burning so bright..._

_Cast me gently into morning, for the night has been unkind._

 -Sarah McLachlan, _Answer_


End file.
